


edges that scratch

by mishcollin



Series: ends of the earth [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2787539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yeah," Dean says, and he can still taste blood and black coffee, coated on his teeth. "A hunt is exactly what we need."</p>
<p>Part 2 of Ends of the Earth verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	edges that scratch

Dean dreams in blood.

There had been this one time, a long time ago, he remembers, where he and Sam had been on a beach, while his dad was hunting in Carolina. It'd been sickly, sticky hot, although Dean doesn't remember where exactly they were, or when. He'd been old enough to be in school; Sam had been too young.

Dean remembers digging sand-trenches with his bare hands, the gritty wet grains bunched under his fingernails.

"Dad's the best at trenches," Dean had said to Sam. "He taught me how to do this."

Sam had frowned, sticking his hands into the trench to paw out more clumps of wet sand. "Where's Dad, anyway?"

"Big business meeting," Dean had said, remembering the wick of light that had caught, sharp and bright, on the blade of a Rampuri knife that his dad slid into the back of his waistband. His dad had looked at Dean, made eye contact, then put a finger to his lips, motioning to Sam still sleeping.

Dean had said, understanding, "Yes, sir."

Sam stopped digging all of a sudden, straightening up. "Dean," he'd said. "Dean," he said again, more urgently.

"What?" Dean snapped, looking up. Sam was fixed, wide-eyed, on the water.

"What _is_ that?"

Dean had looked. The water wasn't blue, or even green, but blood-red, red as the ketchup he sometimes put on his fries. It was teething on the shore, soaking the sand, staining it dark crimson. Dean could see the white underbellies of dead fish, caught in the death tide. The hot air reeked of blood.

"Why is it doing that?" Sam had asked, entranced, and took a step forward to see. Dean grabbed his hand and yanked him back.

" _Sam."_

"I just wanna see."

The blood had been everywhere, in the water, bubbling on the shore, poisoning everything in its wake. It was coming at them fast.

Dean had never been more mesmerized by anything in his life.

He turned, holding Sam's hand in a sweaty grasp, and they'd started to run, barefoot and dry sand spinning under their steps, toward the pier.

He can still taste it, every now and then, the blood-tide rancid and sweet in his mouth, frothing up inside him. He can see it vivid and sick and bright behind his closed eyes, swelling toward him, so _fast--_

"Dean. _Dean._ "

Dean snaps up, opening his eyes. Cas is staring at him, his dark hair sleep-ruffled and leafed in the wrong directions. His shirt is one of Dean's faded high school concerts shirts, blanched and destroyed over time by washer and dryer chemicals. 

"You dozed off," Cas says, his eyes creased with worry. "You should go back to bed."

"I'm fine," Dean says, his throat dry. "Seriously, I'm fine."

"Are you sleeping well?"

"Said I'm fine, Cas."

Cas' hand, strangely warm, slides over his and cups to fit the shape of his knuckles. "Dean."

Sam comes into the kitchen rifling through a handful of papers, saying, "Good news, guys," and Cas sighs quietly and slides his hand away, turning his attention to Sam.

"Disney World?" Dean says in a chipper, sarcastic voice, reaching over to down the rest of Cas' cold coffee, if it means getting the metallic tang off the roof of his mouth.

"Close," Sam says, glancing up with a grin. "Jody called with a vamp case up in Iowa. She thinks there might be a nest near Des Moines. Think we should check it out?"

"Of course," Cas says, standing and stretching. "I think a quick hunt will do us all good. Perhaps retain some normalcy."

"Dean?" Sam asks, gently prompting, and Dean looks at him and feels the Mark start to prickle with heat.

"Yeah," he says, and he can still taste blood and black coffee, coated on his teeth. "A hunt is exactly what we need."

\---

Dean lets Sam drive, which is tailed by a doubtful, "You sure?" on Sam's part, but Dean waves it off with, "Yeah, I'm tired. I want to sleep some before we get there."

"Okay," Sam says, and he exchanges an impassive look with Cas that makes Dean's blood start to boil.

"I'm _fine_ ," he snaps, and they both give a little start at the outburst. "You two don't need to hold my fucking hand, Jesus."

"Calm down, Dean," Sam says, holding up a placating hand, his thumb pressing the car keys against his palm. "We're not trying to mother you, okay?"

"Whatever," Dean says, and gets into the car with a squeak of the leather seats. Cas slides quietly into the back, trying to catch Dean's gaze in the rearview.

Dean doesn't sleep the entire way there. He feels harshed out, like he's on a caffeine high he can't come down from, and his fingers drum against his jean leg as though he can feel Sam and Cas watching him hawkishly from the corners of their eyes.

Dean glances at the rearview mirror, and Cas is already looking at him, expressionless. They haven't so much as touched since they'd fucked at Keystone; the sensory memories have a painful and phantom-like effect on Dean, slipping into small and unknown crevices and reaming him open. Cas had slid up behind him in socked feet one night this week, in the kitchen when Dean was making an egg sandwich, and Dean had whispered, "Don't," when Cas' fingers had ghosted under the hem of his shirt, then more loudly, more shakily, "We can't," when Cas had pressed his lips into the bridge of Dean's shoulder.

Dean isn't allowed to want Cas, not right now. Not when he isn't sure what's him and what's not.

The vamp nest is in an old and abandoned mansion off Interstate 29, exactly where Jody had said they'd be. The house is full of rickety, creaking staircases and dusted maroon rugs, like something out of a game of fucking Clue. An old, corroded chandelier swings and squeaks with a cold draft when they slide in through the front door.

"Colonel Mustard in the den with the candlestick," Dean jokes in a stuffy British accent, and Sam hisses, "Dean, shut up," when a floorboard above them creaks.

"We should all stay together," Cas says, readjusting his blade in his grip, his jaw locked with tension.

Dean can already feel bloodlust rising thick and sweet in his nose, in his mouth, and thinks that's probably a stupid idea.

Which is why he splits the second he gets the chance, when three vamps jump them from the kitchen, and he leaves Sam and Cas to fend them off, pounding up the groaning stairs, his pulse a jagged beat against his Adam's apple.

He can feel the Mark aflame like an electric wire, vibrating through him like a plucked violin string, and he can't stop shaking even as he tears down the hallway, even when another vampire crashes into him from the side.

Dean snarls and rolls with the blow, flipping them over so he straddles the vamp easily. He yanks out his knife, already relishing what the cold, dark blood will feel like on his hands, in his clothes, on his tongue.

The vampire is a bit stronger than Dean had estimated, and with a feral growl and a twist of its torso, Dean's flat on his back, winded, the Mark blazing on his arm like it's going to bubble right through his skin.

The vampire grins in glee, bearing its pointed teeth, and Dean can feel the Mark calling him to kill, lulling him toward it, but he thinks, as the vampire descends, that he won't. This is it, finally, the end. He closes his eyes as the vamp's nails tear into his chest, like hellhounds had so long ago, at the beginning of this unending nightmare, and he sees hellfire behind his shut eyes as he waits, eagerly, to die.

It doesn't come. There's a loud, hideous shriek, another guttural growl, and then the vampire's head is rolling, giving a sick bounce against the wooden floors and tumbling away, and Cas is suddenly grabbing him, hauling him up, and Dean finds himself slammed into the nearest wall.

" _Cas_ \--"

"You didn't fight back," Cas says, through clenched teeth, his eyes blazing with rage, "I _saw_ you, Dean."

"So what?" Dean snarls back, and Cas' hands are fisted so tightly in Dean's shirt that it's pinching the skin on his collarbones. Cas' knotted hands are shaking wildly. Dean loves that, he thinks viciously, he loves that he can fracture Cas so thoroughly, so completely.

"You would've had it kill you," Cas says, giving him another rough jolt against the wall. There's a smear of blood against Cas' cheekbone, like a smudge of war paint. "God _dammit_ , Dean."

"What the fuck would it've mattered?" Dean yells, right in Cas' face, and Cas just grabs him and kisses him bruisingly--Dean can feel the click of their teeth colliding, deep in his skull, and some of the blood-tide recedes from behind his eyes at the contact. The sick scent of blood is everywhere, and his vision is still tinged in crimson.

Dean can feel himself pulled back to earth, reorienting himself in his skin, when Cas' mouth softens on his, near-gentle but no less urgent.

Cas breaks away, still shaking, and Dean slips the blade into Cas' hand and says, in a broken whisper, "Please, Cas, you have to do it. You promised me. Please, please, you have to do it now."

Cas' hand tightens on the hilt, and his face twists into something miserable. "I can't. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm sorry."

" _Fuck_ you," Dean spits, swaying sideways, and the whole world goes dark.

\---

When Dean wakes up, Sam is towering over him, his brow bisected into a line of worry, but he instantly relaxes when Dean's bleary eyes refocus on him.

"Thank God," Sam says, expelling a sharp breath.

"What happened?" Dean asks, jolting up and rubbing his eyes. His chest instantly twinges with sharp pain, and he groans and clutches his ribs. His head is thudding dully with pain, his eyes are gritty, and there's a fucking terrible taste in his mouth.

"Vamp chewed you up pretty badly," Sam says, gently pushing on Dean's shoulder to encourage him to lay back down. "Cas said it almost took you out."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut when the memory flickers back to him, the white-hot terror and the blood and the fury and Cas kissing him like the world was going down in flames. "What else did Cas tell you?"

"Uh…nothing?" Sam says, then slowly narrows his eyes. "Unless there was something he left out."

"Nope," Dean says blandly, shifting with a wince and glancing down at his chest, stripped except for where large wrappings of bandage and gauze are bound around his torso. "Memory went a bit hazy once the vamp hit me, you know?"

"Okay," Sam says, not sounding entirely sold. "Cas is making you something to eat. Just go back to sleep, okay? It's midnight. I can crash out here if you want--"

"No, seriously," Dean says, waving him off. "Go to bed. Seems like you've got me patched up, anyway."

Sam hesitates, then asks, much more quietly, "Are you okay?"

Dean snorts. "Dude, I'm fine. I've had way worse than a couple scratches from Twilight extras."

Sam purses his lips. "That's not what I meant."

Dean smiles in reassurance, and his cheekbone throbs with what he suspects is a bruise. He feels fucking miserable. "What, you mean the Mark? I think it might be getting better, actually. Cas has been doing some grace-therapy on it. I think it's helping."

"Good," Sam says, uncertainly. "I mean, if you're sure."

"Totally sure," Dean replies. "Night, Sammy."

Sam sighs heavily and heads toward the hallway, tossing one last dubious look over his shoulder before he vanishes from sight. The minute he's gone, Dean rolls onto his feet and heads toward the turntable on one of the living room shelves, ignoring the sharp sting in his chest as he shuffles through an an assortment of records. He eventually settles on Eric Clapton and gently presses down the needle.

When Cas comes back in, Dean's pouring himself a glass of whiskey, and upon seeing Cas, Dean pours a second glass.

"Dean," Cas says in alarm, faltering in the entryway. "You should be resting."

"I am resting." Dean shuffles back to the couch and sinks down with a wince, patting the couch cushion next to him for Cas to join him. "You know, in the trademark Winchester way."

Cas sighs, setting a tray of food down on the coffee-table and perching beside Dean with an edge of discomfort.

"Dean," Cas begins, but Dean overlaps him with a loud, thoughtful, "I danced to this at my senior prom."

Cas pauses, thrown for an answer, before he gazes at Dean a long time and says again, sadly, "Dean."

"Well, it wasn't _my_ prom. It was…" Dean sucks in a low breath through his teeth, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Her name was Emilia Martinez. I had the _biggest_ crush on her. Made a total jackass of myself when she asked me to go to the dance with her."

"We need to talk about what happened," Cas says, his voice hushed. "This is something I refuse to brush under the rug."

"She told me she wanted to dance to this at her wedding," Dean sweeps on, ignoring him. He can feel the burn of whiskey already settling low in his gut, a familiar buzz in his head. "I said, 'Really? "Wonderful Tonight", Eric Clapton?' And she was like, 'Yeah.'" He pauses, then swirls the amber liquid in his glass until it makes a small spiral. "Wonder if she did. Dance to it at her wedding, I mean."

"Please," Cas says in a low voice, fastening his hand onto Dean's kneecap.

Dean glances sideways at him and Cas is gazing at him with the saddest fucking look, so sad it makes Dean's stomach churn and his chest feel like it's been cut open and emptied out, and he remembers suddenly the way Cas had murmured his name that night in the cabin, pressed Dean into the rough carpet underneath him, the way he'd nosed softly along Dean's jaw and kissed him on the mouth.

Dean looks away. There's something jagged and painful like glass shards caught in his lungs. "Please don't, Cas."

There's another few seconds that pass, broken only by the soft croon of a familiar guitar line, before Cas says, quietly, "Will you show me, then?"

Dean swings to look at him in surprise. "Show you what?"

"Show me the dance," Cas says, standing, and he's in ratty sweatpants, low on his hips, and Dean swallows, his mouth drying out. "The one at your prom."

"No fucking way," Dean says, and he rests the rim of the glass against his bottom lip and tips his head back, swallowing the rest of the contents with a grimace. "You're not getting me to slow-dance."

"Please," Cas says, again, like that's the only word he knows how to say.

Dean hesitates, then protests, "I'm an invalid."

"I think you can manage."

Dean hesitates, then sighs, and clinks down his empty glass. "Fine. But this is a one-time thing. Okay? And it's a purely educational….y'know, learning thing."

Dean pushes himself off the couch with a short, reluctant groan, and Cas steps toward him instantly, like a magnet in action, and Dean pauses again before he takes Cas' hand, then slides their palms together into proper position.

"This is fucking stupid," Dean says, using his other hand to tug Cas forward by the hip.

"I never went to a prom," Cas says solemnly, as their hips slot together and align.

"Well, you ain't missing much." Dean raises their joined hands and brings them out to the side, then clears his throat uncomfortably and moves his other hand to wind around Cas' waist, pulling him gently forward.

"Are you hurting?" Cas asks in concern when Dean closes his eyes in a wince.

"Everywhere," Dean answers with a wry quirk of his mouth.

"I know," Cas says softly.

Dean starts to sway their hips in time to the music, Cas following his example with a softly etched frown, his arm tightening around Dean's waist.

"Sometimes you just stay in place," Dean says, quiet. "Sometimes you move in a circle. It just depends, really."

Cas drifts closer to him, interlacing their fingers more tightly. "Okay."

For a few moments, they're silent, focused only on breathing each other's air, before Cas says, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Cas' hand drifts up from its position on Dean's hip, and his thumb brushes gently over the bruise swollen on Dean's cheekbone, then strokes across the cut on his lower lip. "I was too rough on you. I just….lost myself, I guess."

"You and me both," Dean mutters.

"I saw you give up," Cas whispers, his gaze flickering across Dean's features. "I watched the fighting light go out in your eyes. I had a….bit of a mental break, you could say."

"Well, I'm sorry too," Dean says, leading them into a small, aimless circle. "For, you know, going Vader again."

"Not your fault," Cas says. "We shouldn't have gone hunting."

"Doesn't change anything," Dean says. "I'm losing it, Cas. I'm losing my grip. Soon I'm gonna go off the handle for good. Someone's got to be the one who puts me down, before I hurt anyone else. And it's got to be you."

A small muscle ticks in the bolt of Cas' jaw. "No."

"Well," Dean mutters, saltily. "Don't make promises you can't keep, then."

"Can I tell you something?" Cas says, thoughtfully.

"Shoot."

"A long time before you were born, thousands of years ago--before I had taken a human form on Earth, even, I was stationed to watch over one of the neighboring galaxies," Cas says. "There wasn't anything of interest in this galaxy, really, except for one small sun. There was one small sun at the center, a few stars, and an even smaller moon that orbited the sun every five years.

"I was there a long time," Cas continues, his voice distant, his eyes sort of glassed over in the strange haze of memory that old people sometimes get, and Dean's quiet, his arm still holding Cas against him. "A very long time. Long enough to watch the sun to collapse, as all suns must. I expected, too, for the moon to be destroyed in the supernova, but it kept orbiting, and orbiting, and orbiting, without purpose. Even though it wasn't lit, because the sun had died out. It had no light to reflect."

Dean feels like something huge is pressing on his chest, cracking into small pieces.

"Eventually, the moon, seemingly of its own accord, collapsed in on itself. It's something I've never seen before, and suspect will never happen again. It's…a universal anomaly, I guess you could say. But miracles do happen."

Dean is silent for another several moments, leading Cas to the soft _schwick_ of the bass-line, completely wordless. He wants to be angry, he thinks, at this visceral effect that Cas has on him, but instead he's got something tight like a fist lumped in his throat, making it hard to breathe.

Then as he thinks it over, he narrows his eyes.

"You just made all of that up," Dean says in realization.

Cas instantly does a poker face. "No."

"You totally did. I'm pretty sure that's not even scientifically accurate."

"It is absolutely true and that absolutely happened."

"You're such a fucking liar, Cas."

Cas tilts his head consideringly, his lips pressed together to keep a somber expression. "I have a fish metaphor I can use."

"God, please not the fish thing again."

Cas laughs, a warm, thrumming sound, and he pulls Dean in closer and kisses him on the nose. It doesn't really feel romantic, more like a thing of fondness, and Dean sighs and drops his head on Cas' shoulder as they continue to rock in place, his cheeks burning.

"We should go back to the mountains," Cas murmurs, into the side of Dean's neck.

"Yeah," Dean says. "We were all happy there. Well, as happy as any of us can get, I guess."

"No hunting," Cas says wistfully. "No angels. No apocalypse. No demons."

"We can't run from shit, Cas."

"Why not?" Cas mutters, so sullenly that Dean almost smiles.

"You know why."

"Heaven is a mess," Cas says. "And it's all my fault. I need to begin repairing it, but I don't know where to start. I suppose that's why I'd rather just….leave everything."

"We could pack up Sam and hit the road," Dean suggests. "Just, you know, keep going."

"What about the Mark?"

"You can keep fixing it with your grace."

"And when my grace runs out?" Cas asks, raising his eyebrows.

"You can get more."

"Yes," Cas says, deadpan. "I'm sure there'll be a Walmart nearby."

The record's long since petered out, just the whir of an empty needle. They're still drifting rhythmlessly in place, unwilling to quit, before Cas murmurs, "Bed?"

"Yeah," Dean says, then, only half-joking, "Tomorrow we'll hit the road."

Cas steps back, leaving the spaces between them cold and drafty, and surveys Dean dismally.

"How about this," Dean says, dropping his hands. "Once we're done with all this….heaven and Cain shit, we can take off. You and me. Okay? No takebacks."

Cas gets this grudgingly optimistic look that breaks Dean's fucking heart, because Dean knows he won't survive to see that open road. He'll make damn sure of that.

"Okay," Cas says, and the needle runs on an empty record in the quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> The thing with the ocean Dean experiences as a child is called "red tide."
> 
> Here is the link to [Wonderful Tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qwprrAEL9-E), if you haven't heard it.
> 
> Title is from Banks' song "Beggin for Thread."
> 
> (Please let me know if you think this should be tagged for Graphic Violence? I wasn't sure if it was quite bad enough to classify.)


End file.
